Marriage, and Other Miscalculations
by angharabbit
Summary: After a delightful one-night stand with a nice chap from the pub, Molly receives a poorly timed and poorly reasoned marriage proposal from Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

_I'll give it to 5am_, Sherlock thought generously, wiping blood from the plastic lid of his disposable cup. It was dripping steadily from his nose, and the napkin he had received at the all night shop was long since soaked through. Let her sleep long enough that she won't be tempted to go back to bed. Then it's all mine. He was dangerously tired already, his mind fuzzy from a multi-day stake out near the docks, and the subsequent blood loss at his discovery.

London fog was beginning to rise around him, the dampness making old injuries ache. He stood at the mouth of the alley across from an old brick building, shops on the bottom, flats on the stories above. A light flicked on in the window he knew so well. Dim light, lamp beside the bed. Pre-bed reading light. Unusual for morning. A silhouette formed for a moment against the curtains, then vanished. Large, male, unfamiliar.

Sherlock went cold, senses sharpening. Danger. He crossed the road in the darkness between two streetlights, slinking along the building until he was close to the door. He leaned against the brick casually, drinking his slightly bloody coffee. The stairs inside creaked, someone trying to exit quietly. The stranger shut the door behind him, turning the knob slowly until it latched completely. Sherlock glanced him over.

_Tall, black, traditionally handsome, late-thirties, social smoker, slightly hungover, barrister, amateur pilot, Oxford, recently divorced, two pet rabbits, only wearing one sock, hasn't been home since yesterday morning... Not dangerous. Also not one of Molly's neighbours, co-workers or acquaintances._

The man hailed a cab and was swept out into the foggy pre-dawn darkness. Sherlock slipped his key in the door and snuck up the stairs, avoiding the telltale creaks because he could. When he reached the fourth floor, he gave the usual tap-tap, then keyed himself into the flat. It was dark, and he could smell the faintest traces of something both familiar and strange. Without a trace of self-consciousness, he let himself into the bedroom.

"Molly," he hissed, his eyes adjusting until he could see the lump of her under the bedclothes.

"Oh god, you've got to be kidding me, Sherlock," she moaned. "What is it?"

He was taken aback. She was slurring slightly, and her voice was thick and low.

"I need to stay for a day or two, sleep and eat, get cleaned up."

She groaned into her pillow. Sherlock remembered that he was probably dripping onto her floor.

"I'm bleeding."

Her heard faint snoring. Annoyed, he switched on the bedside light.

Everything looked wrong. The room looked wrong. Dishevelled. The bed was a knot of sheets and blankets, the pillows mashed side by side at the top. Molly's clothes were strewn across the floor, her purse and phone half under the bed. Two glasses smelling of whiskey were on the nightstand, one with a soggy cigarette butt.

Molly lifted her head, blinking. Her long hair was a hopeless tangle, her lips and cheeks lush, eyes dark. Under the covers she was naked.

Putting one and one together, Sherlock asked the question pressing on him, ignoring the other, unprecedented thing pressing on him.

"Consensual?"

"Very much so." Sherlock could have sworn she purred as she burrowed deeper into the warm bed.

Deciding, for once, not to bother her unnecessarily, he found his stashed pyjamas and robe on his own, and showered. The bleeding nose had almost stopped by the time he was clean and dry, and he didn't appear the worse for his evening's activities. Exhaustion was catching up with him, though.

Molly was still in bed when he re-entered her bedroom, fast asleep in the glow of the lamp.

"Molly," he said, hoping she would wake up, hop out of bed, toddle off and let him have it, as per usual. No good. Her sofa was horribly uncomfortable, though, and he wouldn't get the rest he needed on it. Not to mention the furry animal who would inevitably end up curled around him, claws out whenever he shifted.

She was fast asleep. He watched her a few minutes. More than halfway drunk, and sexually satisfied. She's not waking up. He hated himself for being too tired to fight for a more comfortable situation, but he was about to hit the wall. Arranging the sheets and blankets on the vacant side of the bed, he switched off the light and crawled in. The pillow had hints of men's deodorant and a spicy aftershave. All around him was the smell of the coupling that had occurred there earlier, strange and earthy, Molly and not-Molly. He fell asleep, his dreams rich with scents.

Stretching like a cat, Molly woke slowly, enjoying the melty bonelessness of her body. Wrapped in warm, sage green flannel, she revelled in her nakedness.

_Thank you, Daniel. Michael? Nathaniel? Ah well, doesn't matter anymore._

There was a time when the idea of a one-night stand would have embarrassed her, but being in unrequited love with a confirmed bachelor/sociopath/occasionally dead man had taken it's toll. She had tried dating nice, proper men. The kind who didn't call you John, or compliment you in exchange for viewing a corpse. They were all dull, predictable, and squeamish. That was the joy of the one-night stand, it was a mutually selfish act. The specific other person didn't matter; they could be a place holder, a means to an end, an actor, a mirror. It didn't matter that Molly held human brains in her hand every day with her mind on her lunch options, or that she was a brilliant chemist with a penchant for crap musicals, or that she found a crime-solving occasionally crime-committing sociopath boyfriend material. What mattered was that they both had a good time, and then went their separate ways before the illusion dissolved into reality.

She clung to these last few precious moments of fantasy. The sound of heavy breathing soothed her, the tickle of curly hair against her cheek, the warmth radiating off of the strong firm body, and the distinctive, ever so intoxicating scent of him. He invaded her dreams, her senses- she opened her eyes suddenly - her bed.

Sherlock drifted into the sitting room early the next evening, wrapped in a dressing gown and ravenous. There was a pot of stew simmering on the back of the stove, the smells of curry and vegetables warming the air. He helped himself and dropped into the chair in front of the tv. Molly sat on the couch in sweatpants and an old hoodie, using the remote to scroll through the guide. Making a pleased little noise, she selected a show and settled in.

"What's this?"

"An archeology reality show. It's a repeat, I think you'll like this episode. It's a mystery, and I'm curious what you'll make of it."

"Where?"

"On a farm in a tiny place in Wales that I can't pronounce."

"Hardly narrows it down."

They watched in companionable silence while Sherlock ate his way through the entire pot of stew and a sleeve of crackers. Molly saw that he was beginning to get thin again, and put a lecture about self-care on her Sherlock To Do List.

"The site is a fake," he announced a few minutes into the program, long before the archeologists find the barbed wire under the Iron Age sword.

"Um-hm," she confirmed. "Any ideas?"

Sherlock gave her a break down of the potential culprits, and then decided on a perpetrator as easily as if he were playing a game. They finished the program, and Molly switched off the box. Tossing the remote aside, she slumped back with a contented sigh.

"I've been wondering about that episode for years." Her eyes were closed, and she oozed satisfaction. Sherlock appraised her, half-expecting her to start purring. There was more at play here than an old _Time Team_. Her activities with the handsome barrister/pilot/divorcee had made her happy, visibly happy. Sherlock knew he had never made her glow like that, and was feeling a growing resentment that a stranger could do so by waltzing anonymously into her life, pleasing her sexually, and strolling back out hours later.

And it was none of his business. He was aware of the thin ice he would be on if he made any comment on her activities. There would be talk of double standards, reminders of his indifference to John's lovers, and perhaps worst of all, accusations of jealousy. He wasn't jealous, he just didn't understand how his years of friendship, his companionship, his extreme efforts to treat Molly as she deserved (the best and most important of all his people) and not like he treated everyone else, meant less than that man's actions, that detestably handsome man's...

He wanted a cigarette, the tension in his body making his sore muscles ache.

"Sherlock, is your nose bleeding again?"

Molly was eyeing him with affectionate concern, reaching for a box of tissue on the end table. Her eyes were soft. She saw him. She really saw him. It was something that always struck him about her, something he generally tried to avoid, like a hug from his mother, that just opened him up and left him vulnerable.

He snatched up a tissue and sprang off the couch. Within seconds he was rooting around in her cupboards.

"Where are my emergency cigarettes? They were hidden in this box of arrowroots."

He turned and Molly was finger combing her long ponytail, a sly smile on her face.

"Gone, I owe you."

"I had noticed that you let your... visitor... smoke. I thought that was against your rules."

"Oh, he didn't smoke them," she said, closing her eyes again and burrowing deeper into the couch.

Feeling stupid, standing with the cupboard door in one hand and the decoy box of arrowroots in the other, he frowned.

"You don't smoke."

"It was a special occasion. A fucking amazing occasion. Of fucking."

Through the tissue, blood poured down Sherlock's upper lip, mixing with an increasing crop of perspiration._ None of my damn business_.

Keeping his voice as light and non-judgemental as he could, he said,

"I don't want to inconvenience you, Molly, if you've got company coming. I can go somewhere else first and give you some room to entertain,"

_My company did come last night_, she thought, amused.

"You're welcome anytime, Sherlock, don't trouble yourself about it. Last night was a fluke, I was just feeling a little lustful and the opportunity presented itself."

He moved over a cupboard and pulled a small bottle of single malt out from behind some mismatched retro tupperware. Moving as quietly as possibly as to not give away his sudden desire for a drink, he poured a generous amount and sipped at it. It burned some clarity into his frazzled mind. His brain was racing into all the wrong rooms and corridors of the palace.

_Not jealous don't want it to happen anymore though but why not why shouldn't she she doesn't belong to me I don't control or own Molly Molly is an independent intelligent interesting insightful lots of I words woman who sees through me and likes me anyway used to love me does she still love me if she's having sex with random men does that mean she doesn't love me anymore or does that mean she doesn't have any hope of a relationship therefore is moving on or attempting to move on nor should she have hope of a relationship because there isn't and it's best if she moved on to other partners I should be encouraging her to see people but then why is that idea causing me pain anger fear she's not my partner I don't have partners I'm married to my work she helps me work she's my work partner she's the most intelligent woman she has more to her than "the" woman Molly scares the hell out of me the way she looks at me the possibility of everything she represents I don't know where to begin I don't know since when don't I know these things alright let's get this under control is this a situation I feel comfortable leaving alone Molly with other partners no alright then is it the randomness or any partner it's all partners anyone so why don't I want Molly to have other partners other partners imply that I see myself as potential partner do I maybe I do I must dear god scotch then what do I do Molly deserves to have a partner if she wants one and if I want her to consider me to be an option then this situation will require action on my part and if I'm to be a romantic scotch romantic partner with her consent than I need to please myself as well as her and I only want a partner if it fulfills my ideals as well respect forever companionship understanding what my parents have forever marriage scotch marriage she already fulfills everything I want in a partner and I think she still loves me and has loved me despite everything I do say stupid stupid things I do and say to her and do to myself still loves definitely need to lock this down can't lose her she's too perfect marriage has benefits sensible benefits longer healthier lifespan easier to cohabit with a love partner have children always wanted a child relaxation better sex any sex scotch sex is this what started this stupid sex why can't just let this go why because first want to be Molly's sexual partner only sexual partner if she'll have me now convinced marriage only option likelihood of saying yes seems good based on previous hints from her about wanting to get married when should ask romantic gesture typical but Molly not typical maybe wait scotch don't want to wait must settle this..._

On the couch Molly was taking a long, leisurely drink of tea, absently scritching the cat, remembering with a hint of a blush how she had called the guy from the pub Sherlock more than once and he had just gone with it (he couldn't talk, Mr Oh Oh Yeah Just Like That Lisa).

"Molly Hooper, I'd like you to marry me. As soon as possible. If you want to."

Toby would always remember that day as the time his human sprayed him nose to tail in tea.


	2. Chapter 2

Several hours later Molly was peeling latex gloves from her fingers, frowning at the lab results in front of her. Sherlock leaned against the stainless steel counter, attempting to control his impatience. He flipped a Petrie dish over and over in his hands, foot tapping lightly. Energy and tension hummed through his frame as he surveyed Molly's expression.

"I trust now that you have ruled out my proposal was not drug-induced."

"You're clean," she said, perplexed.

He raised his fingers and ticked off the different excuses she had made.

"As we have ruled out drugs, pranks, boredom, bets, dares, or that it's for a case, could you please consider the idea that perhaps I am sincere?"

Colour rose in Molly's cheeks. He admired the effect, assuming she was coming round to his way of thinking when he realized that she was upset.

"You mean consider that you... want... to marry me," she stated quietly. "Sherlock, you've never shown the slightest romantic interest in me before. Why would you think this is a good idea?"

She pulled her lab coat tighter, and crossed her arms across her chest. Her eyes were guarded, evaluating him. He tried to emote convincingly, but was out of his depth. Molly saw through too much of his bullshit to try to overact with her.

"I'd like you to be life partner. Permanently. I take oaths seriously, and I would fulfill all my duties as husband more than adequately. I have the utmost respect for you, you are honestly, just the, the, this is silly, but the best person I know. And I find myself interested in you sexually. This is new to me, I'm not sure how one usually expresses this interest politely, so I apologize if that sounds rude."

There was a long silence. Sherlock cleared his throat and played with his wristwatch. Molly was giving him a hard, steady look.

"All the sudden you fancy me, and you think we should bind ourselves to each other for life."

"Quite."

"Let's take as read that I still have a romantic interest in you, which considering I took a sexual partner less than twelve hours ago is a big assumption, what makes you think that skipping straight ahead to marriage is wise?"

"Skipping what? We live together comfortably when I'm at your flat, we have compatible interests, and we enjoy each other's company. What's left? All that boring couple stuff?"

She sighed.

"Yes, Sherlock, all that boring couple stuff is necessary. It's how you decide whether you actually want to be someone's partner until death do you part. It's how I knew Tom wasn't the one after all, it's important."

"But I'm not Tom, I'm the original."

"The what?"

"No, nothing, I misspoke. What I meant was, what would need to occur for you to be convinced that we should marry?"

"Sherlock, why this emphasis on marriage? Let's trying, you know, dating, see how it goes?"

"When one is dating does one usually abstain from having other sexual partners?"

Immediately regretting his miscalculated words, Sherlock watched fury explode in Molly's face.

"This is about last night, isn't it? You don't want to marry me, you just don't want me to be with anyone else! Why? Does it upset your ordered world, me having a life outside of you? Do you expect me to join the Sisters of Saint Sherlock?"

Sherlock raised a hand like it could protect him from the fire she would like to have been able to breathe.

"No," he said quickly, "no, that's only half true." She cocked an eye brow and he knew he was on extremely dangerous ground. "I realized last night that I wasn't happy with you having sexual partners, but it was because I would like to be your partner."

"So you were jealous, and thought you'd just lock that down."

"I thought you'd be flattered," Sherlock said, frustrated.

"Because the great Sherlock Holmes has noticed me after all these years?"

"Give me your conditions for marriage and I will meet them. I want to be married to you, Molly. I want to build a family with you, have a future with you alone."

She froze.

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why? Because I want to!"

"Why do you want to?" She asked cautiously. He turned his back to her, bracing himself on the counter top.

"I don't know. Sentiment. Mycroft is going to die laughing. Perhaps that's reason enough."

"You're missing something huge, here, Sherlock," she said gently. "Something critical."

He mentally reviewed his list of reasons to marry Molly, and found it complete.

"What?"

"It's something you'll have to figure out for yourself, and until you do my answer will stay no."

He let out a low growl of frustration.

"I'll do the boring couple stuff," he offered. "Just tell me what to do."

She pulled a pad of notepaper to her, a small wry smile forming while she wrote.

"If you're serious," she said finally in a playful tone that loosened some of the tension in his shoulders, "this is a start."

He read the list, committing it to memory. In the front entrance of his mind palace he set up a large display easel, with the list in pride of place, written in Molly's own curving hand.

"I would like to make a counter offer on item seven," he said calmly.

"Oh?"

"I would like to complete item seven once we're married."

"Why?"

"Closet romantic."

"I would think it wouldn't be quite so important to wait after Janine. Didn't she vanquish that dragon?"

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Don't believe everything you read in the papers."

Molly smiled, but didn't tease. _My, my, still the blushing virgin._

"So what is your counter offer?"

"Sexual activity short of intercourse?"

"Acceptable."

"Some of these can be handled fairly easily," he said, typing rapidly on his phone. Molly's phone gave a gentle buzz in the pocket of her lab coat. She slipped her hand into her pocket, and in the device saw an alert for an email titled "Item Four: Sherlock's financial statement".

"I don't mean that I want a financial statement from you, I mean before people get married, they need to know how their future partner handles money. If they're responsible, what their habits are, if and how they plan, and what their goals are." She squinted, reading the text in her email. "How did you have that ready so quickly?"

"Mycroft has one sent to me monthly," he shrugged. Molly frowned. Sherlock frowned at her frown. "Not good?"

"We'll discuss it."

"Does this count as item six?"

"No, it's a discussion, not a fight."

"I'm unclear why a fight would be required before we marry. Isn't the absence of fighting more beneficial?"

"I'm not talking about something horrible, just that partners need to know how their partners argue, how they react during a serious disagreement. It'll happen eventually."

"So all this occurs on these necessary dates."

"Yes, Sherlock," she explained patiently, turning to clear away the tests. "I'm not going to marry you until you figure out what's missing, but accomplishing the list will better your chances of getting there."

Sherlock emptied the jars for her, since it was his own grudgingly supplied home brew, and got the lab glass set for sanitization.

"Molly, can I take you out for dinner tonight? On a..." The word stuck in his throat. Why couldn't she just agree to be his forever without all this procedural fuss? "Date?"

She smiled, sealing the autoclave.

"That would be lovely."

"And after the date, may I come back to your flat?"

He hated himself for blushing.


End file.
